»»—2014, New Orleans, USA—««
"What the fuck was that?" I asked bewildered.
Some tourists looked at us as we walked passed and Björn looked at them slightly embarrassed.
"Calm down," he said.
"Don't tell me to calm down," I snapped at him, "He has him in his fucking basement!"
"We have to be smart about this," he said, "Like it or not, we are in his city. We are guests, he won't hurt us. Just as long as we don't defy him."
"How can you be so calm about this?" I asked.
"One of us has to be, and you've already taken the role that allows for freaking out," he joked.
I sighed. The head and the heart. Björn always said one of us had to be logical if the other decided to get lost in their emotions. Only one could be the heart, the other had to be the head.
"What are we going to do?" I asked him.
"We're going to find the rest of them," he said, "And we'll find a way to help them. Then we'll come back for Klaus."
I frowned. Freya had been poisoned. Rebekah was under a curse. Kol was dying from the hybrid venom. And so was Elijah. And Nik was trapped in the compound.
"How did they get out?" I wondered.
"I have no idea," he said looking around the busy street, searching for something, "But if no other sire-lines have been wiped out then we know that, at least, Rebekah and Elijah are alive. Maybe Freya found a way to get them all out. If her powers were anything like Dahlia's, she would be powerful enough."
A spark of hope was inlighted in me. He was right. If either Elijah or Rebekah had died someone would have felt it. And if Marcel didn't know where they were, they must have got out. Freya must have gotten them out. And if she was powerful enough to do that, with our help she could fix everything.
I knew what the Insanity Curse was, I had seen it in action. On the '30s, I was travelling around Africa, as Björn wanted to visit tribes and learn ancestral magic, so I tagged along. A man had been cursed by a shaman after daring to defy his teachings, the cursed consumed its victim's sanity till he was but a shell of what he used to be. He became aggressive and volatile. When he ended up murdering his wife, I tried to compel the shaman so he would stop the curse, but witches can't be compelled, so I ended up killing him to stop the spell he had put on the man. I was too late, the man had killed himself.
I had also seen what werewolf venom did to vampires, it wasn't a pretty sight. First is the fever, the hallucinations, the hunger. Vampires could become so desperate that they would kill themselves to stop the pain. Even if they didn't, the venom would take care of them in three days, tops.
One thing was clear to me, they must have got some help. There was no way a witch could carry three dying vampires —oh, the irony— away from the grasp of Marcel Gerald.
"They were here for two years, someone must have known them," I said.
Björn nodded, agreeing with me.
"If Kol was here, he would have befriended some witches," I reasoned.
He nodded towards a little shop where a middle-aged woman sold herbs and magic remedies. "Let's try the witches then," he said.
We headed towards the shop. For the oblivious tourists, it might be a harmless Wiccan shop in the middle of the French Quarter, something to go along the attractive theme New Orleans had: home of the supernatural. But we knew better.
Björn opened the door for me and I could sense the woman tense, she already knew what I was, and she didn't like it. She said good-bye to some clients with an amiable smile and wave and, when the shop was empty and only we remained, she turned serious.
"What do you want," she said dryly.
"What's with that tone?"
"Do I have to say it?"
Björn patted my arm, taking over. "We wanted to get some tea," he said, walking around and grabbing some herbs.
"Not tea," I snapped.
He chuckled. "I want some tea," he said, "She might need something stronger."
He set the herbs on the table, I recognized sage. I knew what that was for, secrecy, and I realised what he wanted to do. There was a spell that would protect the room from eavesdropping as long as the sage was burning.
With the flick of his wrist, the sage started to burn, and we had gained five minutes protected from enhanced ears. I looked around to make sure no one was around anyways. Marcel had told him not to do magic on the French Quarter, I was all about breaking rules and pushing buttons, but I didn't know how much we could tease this new version of Marcel, he seemed more dangerous.
"We want some information," he said to the dumbfounded woman, who hadn't expected him to be a witch, "We need to know all you can tell us about the Mikaelsons."
She blinked away her surprise and looked at us. "Why would I tell you?"
"Because you want to be nice?" I offered.
She glared at me.
"We'll pay you," Björn offered.
"I don't need your money," she said.
"What do you need?" I asked.
"Nothing from you," she said.
I sighed exasperatedly. "This is useless, Björn. You risked it for nothing," I said.
"Please," he pleaded to the woman.
"She's a vampire," she argued, "They can't be trusted."
"She's my sister," he confessed and she frowned, looking at me, "I vouch for her."
"What would you want with the Mikaelsons?" she pried.
"We just need to know where they went," he explained.
"Why?"
"Because they're my family," I replied aggravated, but then sighed and tried to plead softer, "Please."
She frowned. Obviously, she didn't know what I was talking about. I clearly wasn't an Original but she didn't know my history. If anything, the name Beyla Mikaelson had died once again back in the 20s.
"I don't know anything," she finally said.
"Oh, gods," I muttered. I wanted to rip her head off. Why were witches always so annoying? "Let's just go."
Björn nodded slightly, disappointed on the woman. He really must have thought she would help.
We were almost at the door when she finally said, "You should try the bayou. The Marshall girl used to hang out with the Mikaelsons. Her pack lives on the bayou."
Björn smiled at her. "Thank you," he said.
I stared at the woman and she stared back, I nodded once and were about to exit when she warned us, "And don't use magic here, kid. Marcel doesn't allow it."
I scoffed. "I can handle Marcel," I said and we exited.
We walked out of the store and Björn and I shared a knowing look, agreeing silently not to talk about what had gone inside until we reached the bayou. Hopefully, by then, we would be outside the area controlled by Marcel.
»»———— - - - ————««
The bayou was in the middle of a forest outside of New Orleans. I could hear people around, even if I couldn't see them. And I was sure they could see us, walking around trying to find our bearings.
"If I'm honest with you," Björn started, "I don't know how we're going to find the Marshall girl that woman was talking about."
"We could just grab a random werewolf and ask," I offered.
"They are usually secretive," he said, "I don't think it will be as easy as to ask nicely."
"I didn't say 'nicely'," I added with a grin.
"These people have enhanced hearing," he reminded me, "You might want to abstain from your usual jokes."
I rolled my eyes, focusing instead on where I was placing my foot. I heard someone following us, they weren't being subtle about it either. I glanced at my brother and he shot me a knowing look. We kept walking for a while, drawing the spy away from the noise of the residents of the bayou. If one of Marcel vampires had followed us, we rather they thought we were just walking, we didn't want to be seen talking with werewolves.
When we were far enough, Björn slowed down his pace, which told me he was getting ready to attack. Or rather, ready for me to attack.
He suddenly stopped. "Now!" he told me.
I ran with vampiric speed towards our follower, grabbing him by the neck and pinning him against a tree. But one glance was all it took to make me back off.
"What the hell?" I said as the boy fell to the ground, coughing. I looked back at Björn, who was getting to where we were. "Why is a toddler following us?" I asked outraged.
If this was the best spy Marcel could spare, I was a little insulted.
"I'm fourteen!" the boy argued.
I rolled my eyes. "You have to be kidding me," I muttered as I grabbed him by the shirt and pull him to his feet, "Don't you have school or something? Why are you following us?"
He looked at me with a pout but he didn't answer me.
"Do you know who we are?" Björn asked, tilting his head.
He shook his head.
"Then why are you following us?" I demanded.
He finally regained his breath and rose his chin to look up at us. "You want to kill Marcel," he said.
"Well, I haven't got that far," I scoffed, "I was thinking maiming for now."
"I want to help," he insisted.
I raised an eyebrow and looked at Björn, who was standing next to me looking at the boy.
"Okay. Kid. You have a name?" I asked trying to keep my cool.
"Peter," he said, "Griswold."
"OK, Peter. How are you going to help us?" I said. He was just a kid, and he wanted to face the strongest, meanest vampire.
"Why would you help us?" Björn asked.
The little guy balled his hands into fists and set his jaw. "He killed my dad," he said.
Björn stared at me, asking me what I wanted to do with him.
"Go home, kid," I said, "Your mum will be worried."
"I don't have a mom," he said, frowning, "My dad was all I had. And Marcel murdered him when he went on a killing spree to submit the rest of the packs."
"Hold on," Björn said, "You're a werewolf?"
He nodded.
"Do you know the Mikaelsons?" I asked.
He nodded again. "I met Hayley Marshall when my dad brought me here to find a pack. She lived with them. Kind of."
"That must be the girl that woman was talking about," I told Björn and he nodded.
"Do you know where she is?" Björn asked.
The boy hesitated and rubbed his neck. "Well..."
"Yes or no, Peter," I urged.
"Are you going to kill Marcel?" he asked.
"Believe me, kid," I said, "If we bring the Mikaelson back, they'll kill him."
He scowled, thinking, and finally nodded. "I think I can find her," he said.
"How?" Björn asked.
"I can feel if a pack is close," he said.
Björn looked at me with a frown on his face.
"You can feel it?"
"Yeah," Peter replied, "It's a Rogue kind of thing."
We instantly knew what he meant.
"You don't have a pack," I stated.
Rogue werewolves were those who had lost their place in the pack, it could be because they had been kicked out or because their whole pack had died. They were rare to find, but I had met a few throughout my life. They said they could sense when a pack was close by, as their instinct was to find a new one to call family, and that they felt an excruciating pain for lacking the pack bond. The only way they could relieve the pain, if only a little, was being closer to other werewolves. And the only way to get rid of it completely was getting accepted into a pack.
Peter shook his head.
"With my father gone, I'm the only one left," he said, "We came here to join the Crescent pack, but we never got accepted. There was no time before everything went to shit."
I stared at the boy for some time. I pitied him.
"But I know how her pack feels," he said, "If I focus, I can find her."
"Okay, Peter, you can help us," I said, making him smile.
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